One Last Cup of Tea
by slightlysmall
Summary: "In the bright morning, Harry's arms had gone limp around her." Prequel to "Come to Die."


"Happy birthday, Ginny," Harry said, resting on an elbow and planting a kiss on his wife's cheek.

Half-consciously, she burrowed deeper into the arms of her husband. "Is it my birthday already? I just had one of those last year."

"Yes, well, they were set up to be an annual thing."

Ginny sat up in bed and stretched her joints. She rubbed her eyes and grinned. "You don't change, Harry. You know that?"

The brightness in his eyes receded slightly even as he put on his glasses. "You're right. I don't."

"What's got you upset?"

"I'm still alive," he said simply. "I don't want to be alive anymore."

Ginny looked at him, but didn't say anything. They had been married for more than a century now - how was that possible? - and she knew his moods. Right now, he needed a few minutes alone. Come to think of it, a few minutes alone wouldn't hurt her, either.

She shifted her nightgown as she climbed out of bed, then hobbled toward the bathroom. Confronting the mirror was an unfortunate necessity. Her mum had died at age one hundred and now Ginny was one hundred and nineteen. Seventy years with her mother, and now nearly fiftywithout her.

There were so many terrible things about growing old alone. Even with Harry, and she still loved him so much, it felt like they were alone. None of her siblings lived past age one hundred. And when Ron went, Hermione was only days behind. Even Ginny's grandchildren were growing old now, and had grandchildren of their own. She was older than Albus Dumbledore had ever been, and that was the part that seemed the strangest.

As a young Hogwarts student, she felt her Headmaster would live forever. Even after he died, she was sure that it was only murder that could have stopped him. He seemed so wise, and Ginny never felt that way herself.

Her birthday wasn't much to speak of. Not at one hundred and nineteen. Not the luxurious affair Harry's one hundred and twentieth birthday had been a few weeks ago. Just a few owls from great-grandchildren and their babies and an appearance from James, looking even more like Harry in his old age and wondering if Ginny was doing all right without Lily Luna. Of course she was. It had been nearly twenty years without her youngest.

As much as she was happy to be around her family, she was relieved when they left. She put the kettle on for one last cup of tea before an early bedtime and sat outside on the cool summer night, holding hands with her husband.

That night, snug in their bed, Ginny turned over toward her husband, ignoring her protesting joints. "Harry?"

"Yes, love?"

"It's always been you, you know. And I love you a hundred years more than I did the day we married."

"I love you, too," he said, and pulled her tight and kissed her slowly. It was not the slowness of old age, but instead the slowness of sensuality and youth. Years had passed since they last made proper use of their marriage bed, and Ginny knew that wouldn't change this night. Holding her husband against her, fragile as they both were, was all the comfort in the world.

In the bright morning, Harry's arms had gone limp around her. She had to be certain, though, and she pressed a finger to his wrist. The heart her own heart had always beaten for had stopped its own beats. Ginny couldn't bring herself to cry. She simply nodded and rolled him gently onto his back. She looked over him for a moment, then removed his glasses from the nightstand and placed them carefully across the bridge of his nose. There. Now he was ready.

After a hundred years of living for him and living with him, she couldn't bring herself to feel more than relief. Harry would never have to live without her. Ginny knew she was strong, and she had done it before, a lifetime ago. She had resigned herself to his death when she was only sixteen. That was the time she cried for him. Those were the months she mourned his death.

And then, once those months had passed, she had mourned once more. After all, today was not the first day she had seen his lifeless body. She had already screamed for him. She had already been in anguish, and quite rightly so, she thought now. That one May second, she wasn't just mourning Harry Potter. She was mourning the could-have-beens of marriage and children and a life with him.

Those things weren't could-have-beens anymore. They were memories. Ginevra Molly Potter could not have asked her husband for a single extra breath. Instead she pulled the covers up close to his chin, just the way he liked, then went to the fireplace to call Lily's granddaughter, Grace.

She said the words with less emotion than even Tom Marvolo Riddle once had. "Harry Potter is dead, dear. We need to plan the funeral."

Grace was the right person to talk to. She nodded sadly, but said nothing. Within two hours, a few dozen of Ginny's descendants had crowded into their home and sat on anything steady they could find or conjure. They spoke over one another, half arguing, completely ignoring the presence of the new widow. And still upstairs, Harry's body lay cold.

"It will have to be public," someone said.

"We should have a private family thing first."

"And include all the Weasley descendants?! All right, so a private funeral for a few hundred or so. Practically anyone can claim relation to Megan and Arnold or whatever-their-names-were, and we'd have to let all them come," Christine said. She was only fifteen. Molly and Arthur were dead for more than thirty-five years before she was born. Ginny knew she had no right to resent her for the mistake, but felt her jaw clenching anyway as she sat silently in the corner.

Ginny cleared her throat, and the chatter in the room stopped abruptly as they looked at her. It only made her wish all the more it had been a double funeral. But no matter. She could feel her heartbeat growing feeble without him, and it had only been a few hours. It had a few beats left, though, and she knew what she had to do with them. "It will be public," she affirmed. "In Godric's Hollow."

"Are you sure?" James asked tentatively. "I thought Dad had bad memories there."

"I'm sure. You may do what you want to afterwards, but I want to give a speech." Her voice was worn with age, but authoritative. After all, she knew exactly what she needed to say.

* * *

**A/N:** This story is a direct prequel to "Come to Die," (fanfiction story: s/8359028/1/) which picks up as the funeral begins. Written for the Quidditch competition.


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